Black, Two Sugars
by ThingsThatNeedThings
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' JohnxSherlock fanfiction. Sherlock's such a tease, particularly when it involves Latin and coffee...
1. Chapter 1

**Black, Two Sugars**

SherlockxJohn

(BBC Sherlock)

He licked out the last of the sweet syrup with his tongue thirstily and sighed as he looked into his mug. No more coffee. He rolled his eyes, looked at his watch – 4.08am. John wasn't up yet, but Sherlock with his heightened senses could hear him breathing, collapsed on the sofa after a long day of chasing suspects through the streets of London. Sherlock had decided not to tell him that the people they had been running after weren't actually anything to do with the crime. He called them his "projects": certain people Sherlock would watch just out of boredom to find out about their lives, and to laugh at when they got things so wrong… It was like some TV soap for him.

He looked at his hand. It was perfectly still yet he could feel the caffeine pulsing through his veins, making him feel like he was shaking with adrenaline. He wanted to do something. Something exciting. Something dangerous. Something fun.

With a steel stare his eyes sliced across to John as he snored softly. Sherlock couldn't help frowning. How many cups had he had? Six? He'd lost count. Just a hell of a lot of coffee. It jolted through his brain until he wasn't even sure what he was thinking. Something about murder. Something about John. Something about sex.

Sex. Could he? Dare he? Should he? No, no… It was almost forbidden from his mind. It was the section of his mind palace that was regarded as "restricted", and Sherlock had never really considered intruding on his own deep, personal thoughts.

Beyond the barricades of asexuality, Sherlock was awake with the moans of arousal and pleasure echoing through his head, teasing him like screams from the back of a cave. He wanted to investigate. He wanted to understand. But even for him, this felt like crossing the line.

Sex. Had he before? No. Of course not. He'd struggled to get a roommate, let alone a mate-mate. Of course, he knew everyone's turn-ons, everyone's fetishes. It was obvious. Someone scratches their neck while considering sex, probably into odaxelagnia (biting). Digs nails into palms of partner - sadism. Bites tongue very clearly and painfully - algolagnia (pain in *ahem* stimulating places). Licks their own cuts in a sexual way – vampirism (blood lust).

Oh, it was so obvious what John's was. Sherlock bit his lip at the thought of it.

Autassassinophilia – aroused by life-threatening situations.

That was why Sherlock dragged him around so much, to watch him tense and lick his lip in that way he always did, to watch him look to Sherlock begging when they were in danger. John was a good partner, and Sherlock loved having him around. He did not – however – want John to be at risk.

But since he enjoyed it so much, Sherlock made exceptions.

His mind whirred as he watched John, laid there, so vulnerable, so unaware… He thought of everything all at once, all he knew; he read every book in the restricted sex zone of his mind palace, ideas swarming at him.

And Sherlock's fetish?

John.

It was as simple as that. He would watch him sleep and wish he could just wake him and ravage him. He would walk behind him just to imagine them together without John eying him suspiciously as he grinned to himself. He would wait until John was weak and powerless, and then there Sherlock would be, the knight in shining armour, as John bent to his will thankfully and gratefully.

Everything about John fascinated Sherlock. He wore jumpers all the time and comfortable clothes, like he still wanted something or someone close to him. He was futile in all relationships with women obviously because he was meant to be with Sherlock; his heart never left his curly-haired detective, and Sherlock's soul never strayed from his blonde army doctor. He was awkward and shy, clearly repressing feelings and thoughts. Sherlock knew he infuriated him. Sherlock also knew that John loved him for it; it made him feel like he was part of a team again, supporting those around him, like he was a soldier. But like a soldier, he needed someone to lean on when the troops were all down – and there was Sherlock.

He had nerves of steel and a heart of gold. He wore a smile and it suited him perfectly – his eyes lit up and he seemed to glow with happiness. His laugh was a symphony of joy and it warmed Sherlock to hear it; when they laughed together it was like they were proposing marriage to one another and accepting in turn. They were the ultimate couple – and everyone knew it.

Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly as he decided. He wanted to be close to John. He wanted to be with him. He wanted him.

Setting down his mug slowly he strode across the room and knelt at John's side. His heart fluttered and then settled into a solid beat as Sherlock gulped and smiled.

"Sherlock…" John muttered in his sleep. "Oh…"

Sherlock bit his lip again and shuffled his legs uncomfortably, feeling the tension building in him. What he would have given to have seen into John's mind, to see what he wanted! But then again it didn't matter; Sherlock always got what he desired.

"_Volo tu_," Sherlock whispered in his ear, taking care to let his breath heat John's neck.

He flinched and opened his eyes slowly, like he already knew what was happening, as indeed he did. The apartment was dark, black, and Sherlock's sly smile was all he could see. His pale eyes cut straight into John's mind, and the Latin embraced him with romance. Yes, he knew what was happening. It was one of Sherlock's tricks to speak Latin, knowing John would have to ask what it meant. "Excuse me?" he murmured, trying not to yawn and at the same time restraining himself from kissing the man before him.

Sherlock leaned his cheek to John's and told him, "I want you."

John felt a shiver of arousal down his spine. He could smell the fresh coffee aroma drifting around him, clinging to Sherlock like a fangirl. He wondered what the extra stimulation to Sherlock would mean.

But he didn't dare imagine it.

"Say it," Sherlock demanded, his hands running down John's thighs until he bit his lip.

"S-say what?" John stammered.

"What did I teach you?"

John's mind raced and froze at the same word. "Oh…" he realised. He shut his eyes. "I… I can't…"

Sherlock let his tongue trail along John's neck until he felt a pulse, and he nipped quickly, hearing John gasp a breath before saying, "John. Say it."

John, trembling, managed, "_Meus dominus…"_

Sherlock let the words tingle through his body, his tongue curling desperately in his mouth, craving John. But he knew there was more to do to make John his first. He would make John beg. He would make John cry out his name.

"_Servus…_"

"Servant?"

Sherlock leaned into him, pressing himself closer, until their noses touched. "Slave."

John shut his eyes, suppressing a groan, when Sherlock thrust himself onto his lips and kissed him feverishly, their tongues interlinking and devouring one another. John's mind was a blur – he was hardly awake and yet so alive. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing against his own and he nearly swooned, the kiss alone weakening him beyond comprehension. Only Sherlock could be this passionate, this demanding, this ruthless, and John loved it.

"_Fidelis medicus… Fortus miles…_" Sherlock told him, but John wasn't listening, too distracted by Sherlock's tender lips along his chest. "_Periculosus vir… Postulo tu. Nunc._"

John had never spoken Latin before. In school he had managed to avoid it as best as he could, but the way Sherlock spoke it made it the sexiest language he had ever heard. Every word was pure bliss. He didn't need to understand it; he saw the lust in Sherlock's eyes.

He grabbed his partner's waist, and pleadingly begged him without words. Exactly what Sherlock wanted. John didn't mind playing his game; in this there were no losers.

(Except Mrs Hudson, should she accidentally see anything, but the old dear was easily persuaded that she'd imagined it.)

They stared each other down; Sherlock's pupils were wide, a black hole straight to his soul, but his eyes were narrowed.

Just then he stood up.

John blinked a few times, panting ever so slightly.

"Wh-" he breathed.

"Make me some coffee, then we'll continue." Sherlock smirked. "My movements are getting slow… We don't want that, do we?"

John whined helplessly, knowing he had to do what Sherlock said. He swung round and slunk into the kitchen, fully aware of Sherlock's gaze resting upon his naked body.

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock told him, and pulled the riding crop and the handcuffs from their hiding place.

He


	2. Chapter 2

**Black, Two Sugars 2**

SherlockxJohn

(BBC Sherlock)

He closed his eyes and tried to make sense of things. Minutes before, he had been dreaming, of exactly this. Was he still asleep? Was this even real?

The coffee pot was empty. John squirmed a little, growing desperate. There had to be some somewhere. He _needed _this.

John whimpered, "There's none h-here!"

"Then go get some," Sherlock ordered nonchalantly.

John cringed, realising how uncomfortable it was just to walk in his situation. He could not – would not – leave the apartment.

He pulled himself taller and strode over, his shoulders wide. "No," he uttered. "No, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow. "No?" He stood up and paced over meaningfully.

John's lips trembled as he breathed "no" again. There was no way in hell he was leaving this apartment without having sex with Sherlock. Too many times he had been teased and ordered around and made more vulnerable than any more should be. Now it was time for payback. He drew himself taller and puffed out his chest. "Our bedroom," he ordered. "Now."

Sherlock bit his lip. This wasn't what he had planned; in fact, it was better. A shiver of arousal ran down his spine. "Or what?" he teased, forcing a tremble of excitement from his voice.

Instinct took over. John knew he was in charge now. "Or I'll beat you." He stepped forward purposefully, arms folded across his chest, brow furrowed defiantly.

Suddenly he didn't feel so tall. He grasped for words but his tongue was dry.

John told himself to hold back, to tease Sherlock as much as he could. Hell knows it was time for payback. "Say something in Latin," he ordered.

Sherlock stood his ground. "_Quisquam_," he told him, slowly, seductively, smiling softly, "_dominus…_"

John could see his meaning in his eyes. The tables had turned. Sherlock was vulnerable. John was dominant. "_Servus_," he tried, feigning confidence. "_Nunc._"

"_Sic_," Sherlock replied, with a gently wink of acceptance. "_Cubiculum_?" He indicated the stairs and John nodded.

"Oh God yes," he breathed, grabbed Sherlock's wrist and tugged him into the corridor. He felt his lover's pulse – strong and hard and fast – and couldn't make it to the bedroom, forcing him back against the wall with military agility and ripping Sherlock's gown off him, letting it drift to the ground.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, holding back his rushed breaths. "_Difficiles tui retinere, medicus?_" he growled, trying not to pant.

"Shut up," John hissed, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's neck and pulling him closer until their lips touched – so soft – and John leaned into him. Sherlock took the hint, bursting through John's lips to lick at his tongue feverishly. John groaned uncontrollably; Sherlock always knew how to kiss with mind-blowing movements that left John on the edge of sanity.

Staggering backwards, he clutched for the balcony, regained himself, pushed Sherlock away. The man's desperate gaze cut into him, wanting more, as he took his shirt collar and pulled him up the next few stairs. He could see the bedroom door, but it seemed like miles away. He felt Sherlock's hand running up his thigh; he spun, pressed a point on the back of Sherlock's neck, watched his partner's eyelids flutter. Of all the things anatomy was useful for, sex was the best use of it.

"_Deus…_" Sherlock whispered, dropping to his knees as fingertips slipped on silk and kissing John's backside tenderly. "_Commodo, dominus… Volo… Tenes quoque velles…_"

Watson understood, dear God, he understood everything just by the way Sherlock's lips moved, perfectly pronouncing every lustful feeling they both held. He took Sherlock's collar again, led him to his feet, shoved him to the wall. "Now you listen," he ordered strongly, "We are going to have sex. In a bed. In _my _bed."

But Sherlock was cunning. He grasped John's hair, running his long violin fingers through it, nipping at his collarbone and leaving tiny red patches as promises. God, John tried so hard to resist but he found his knees buckling. The struggle for power between the two men was built on strategy, and Sherlock knew every trick in the book.

John didn't need the book.

He swung his attacker off of him and pulled him onward, tossing him through the doorway and watching him collapse on the bed, sprawled and shocked at John's sudden strength. He squirmed backward as John seized his pyjama bottoms, dragging them off and pinning him down like the wild animal he was. He gripped Sherlock's shoulder, right at the tender part, watching him jerk against the pain and pleasure. He opened his mouth to gasp but John was there, his tongue drawing every sound out of him. Sherlock grabbed for any part of John he could find, digging his nails into John's waist, hearing him gasp but not daring to open his eyes. All the logic, all the theory, was out of the window, and Sherlock was helpless.

"Just give in," John whispered in his ear, planting his knees firmly either side of Sherlock's twitching body.

Sherlock moaned softly then clamped his jaw. "_Numquam_," he managed, but John knew that was just his ego talking.

And even if it wasn't, John would prove him wrong.

He knew '_dominus_' had just been a tease before, but now he would prove it.

Now, John Watson was in control.

He ripped Sherlock's shirt open and grazed his teeth across his open chest, heaving with each breath as Sherlock tried to convince himself he still had a chance, hands firmly holding the detective's arms by his sides, making sure he didn't struggle. He remembered the army briefing on taking captives: to obtain surrender make sure the prisoner is held securely, and you will need to use force.

Oh, he intended to. Sherlock struggled up but John pushed him back down. "Stay down," he demanded, and quickly pulled Sherlock's boxers from him before replacing his restraints. Sherlock's eyes were wide, pleading, but he was not about to surrender. Not yet, anyway.

They could feel the heat radiating from each other's bodies; John leaned closer, pressing his manhood to Sherlock's, watching him tremble. Sherlock tried to focus, but all he felt was that warmth like a volcano against him; he remained tense, resisting as best he could, but he felt himself beginning to lose all concentration. He listened to John's breath and cursed quietly, so hard that he felt he could break stone, and John was just as hard, if not more so, willing him to give up.

"J-John," Sherlock whined breathlessly.

"Yes," John replied, his breath on his cheeks making Sherlock bite his lip. He wasn't even sure where that was directed anymore.

"I…" Sherlock stammered, but then he stopped himself, cringing with a wide grin and sighing loudly.

John chuckled. "Say it."

Sherlock craved John's touch always and to be here, in this position, was unlike anything else, John holding him down and gripping him firmly, the room boiling up. "Do it," Sherlock growled.

John shook his head, feeling the sweat forming as he held himself back. He kept his hand as steady as he could manage, running one thumb slowly over Sherlock's member, savouring every touch, wanting to do so much more. "Admit it," John whispered, "_Servus._"

"Oh…" Sherlock gasped as John tightened his fingers around him, his head tilted back – he could go at any second. He just had to say the word. "Please, John… John…

"_Dominus…_"

John moaned softly in pure satisfaction, watching Sherlock's mouth in slow-motion as he gave in, surrendered, admitted defeat by his hand. He rubbed the skin up and down, slowly at first, and then let the desire overcome him and made his movements faster, his free hand clutching Sherlock's waist, hitting pressure points again and again as he rocked into Sherlock, his muscles tensed and self restraint ready to break like an overstretched elastic band.

Sherlock, panting, threw his head back, his hips bucking up to John, jolts of arousal coursing through him like he was being electrocuted… and enjoying every Goddamn second of it. He shut his eyes tight, yelping for mercy but to no avail.

"John, _dominus, _fuck, YES!" he roared, tugging on John's silken hair, hearing every pant and every gasp from them both.

And then the band of self control snapped.

Hissing, Sherlock had no chance of overpowering John as he let it all go, releasing himself carelessly. John gasped and was seconds behind, laughing all the way. He collapsed on top of Sherlock, panting and moaning still. Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, holding them together as he tried to catch his breath, feeling his mind settle back into nothingness. He was dizzy, giddy, and so bloody exhausted he thought he might fall asleep right then.

John rolled off of him, took his hand, squeezed it, the heat from both of them burning. They both needed a shower, but neither of them gave a damn, lying next to one another, passion filling them both.

Just then the doorbell rang out shrilly, causing them both to groan in annoyance. The door opened (Mrs Hudson probably… _Oh shit, Mrs Hudson…_ the men thought with more than a little embarrassment) and someone stepped in.

"Sherlock? John? You up there?"

"Lestrade…" Sherlock grumbled. "Just fuck off already…"

John kissed him on the cheek. "My thoughts exactly." He moved to his lips, letting his tongue stray and-

"I even brought you coffee, guys!" Lestrade called, irritated. "Just how you like it, Sherlock! Black, two sugars, right?"

John just giggled.

"Oh shut up," Sherlock laughed through John. He forced John from him regretfully and sighed, climbing with considerable difficulty off the bed. "Coming, Lestrade."  
>"I bet you are," John mocked.<p>

"Shut up!" Sherlock replied, hitting him with a pillow. He grinned widely, kissed John's forehead. "You know, I won't forget this."

"I know." John smirked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "_Amo tu, dominus._"

"_Amo tu quamquam, servus._"

Lestrade tapped his foot. Mrs Hudson looked like she'd seen (or rather, heard) a ghost.

"Are they having sex again?" he asked, trying to sound uninterested. Mrs Hudson just nodded. "I really do feel sorry for you, having to listen to that… all the time…"

He lied, and as soon as she left the DI giggled like a fangirl.


End file.
